They keep saying I should hide.
That my worth drips down drainpipes when I name
what I do with this body—
like it ain’t already been written in sweat,
in rent notices, in every look I get from a cop
trying to decide if my outfit is a felony.

They call it selling yourself.
As if bodies like mine were ever fully owned.
As if a waitress doesn’t serve fantasy with a smile.
As if a therapist doesn’t charge by the hour
to hear someone moan their truth into a room.
As if labor is only noble
when it breaks your back
instead of opening your legs.

I do not apologize for survival.
I do not whisper when I say
I make love a commodity
in a world where love is often withheld.
Tell me—
what is dirtier:
touching a man for money,
or pretending poverty
is ever clean?

I am a mirror
held up to society’s hypocrisy.
They want desire sterilized,
shame packaged in handcuffs,
while scrolling OnlyFans
with one hand and signing laws with the other.
Do not pretend to be disgusted by me
when you fund my existence with your silence.

This body is not a crime.
This body is labor,
is lineage,
is resilience in stilettos.
It is Black, brown, trans, disabled, undocumented,
queer, neurodivergent, feminine, masculine,
neither, both, or all.
It is sacred
and for sale—
not because it is broken,
but because the world is.

So spare me your judgment.
Your pearls clutched too tight
to see the truth:
Sex work is work.
Say it louder.
Sex work is work.
Say it with your vote.
Sex work is work.
Say it with your legislation.
Sex work is work—
Say it like your freedom depends on it.
Because it does.

I want a world where we walk streets without fear,
where safety does not depend on secrecy,
where the word “prostitute” is not weaponized
but honored,
because it meant food,
it meant rent,
it meant one more damn day
without begging.

I do not need saving.
I need rights.
I need healthcare.
I need dignity without conditions.
I need a world where my name is not erased
because it dares to be known.

Do not tell me I am immoral
when your capitalism is clothed in exploitation.
At least I am honest.
At least I do not pretend.
I offer desire,
consensual, raw, transactional,
sometimes sweet, sometimes survival—
but always mine to give.

And that matters.
That should matter.

So if you are listening—
if your eyes are open—
if your soul is not too sanitized
by suburban righteousness—
hear me when I say:

This body is not a crime.
This body is revolution.
And we—
we who trade in touch,
in fantasy,
in agency—
we are not your shame.
We are your mirror.
We are your reckoning.
We are your future,
unafraid.